


Boomslang

by NothingSoDivine



Series: NSD Writes Homestuck [8]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Human, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dominant Masochism, Eventual Sex, F/M, I didn't know there was a tag for that, Love/Hate, Masochism, Sadism, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingSoDivine/pseuds/NothingSoDivine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her legs are too perfect. You want to rake your nails down her elegant calves, her luscious thighs; draw some blood, make a mark. Her sequined dress pools slightly on the desk beside her.</p><p>You hate this woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snowman - June 6/20

**Author's Note:**

> The sex is in Chapter 6, in case you want to skip ahead. You probably shouldn't, but I know people will want to.

"Good evening, Mr... Slick, was it?"

Damn it. You fucking hate her already.

"Yeah. Most people call me Jack, though," you tell her. She ignores you. Bitch.

"Sit down," she invites, with a wave of her cigarette holder in the direction of the skeletal chair in front of her desk.

"I'll stand," you say.

She glares at you. It's not quite an aggressive glare - just pointed enough to get her message across.

You sit.

"Now, Mr. Slick," she says, rising from her chair. (Bitch.) "You wish to join my company?"

"Company?" you echo. "Mob."

"Business," she amends. "The point still stands. Do you wish to work for me?"

You'd rather claw your own eyes out with your bare hands. You'd rather give up your precious blades and fight all your battles with a violin bow. You'd rather dig your way to China with a parfait spoon.

"You could say that," you answer.

The bitch smiles. It's a look you want to tear off her face, just so you can keep it in a jar and put it on anything you decide to use for target practice. "I'm glad to hear it," she lies. You know it's a lie. She doesn't try to hide it.

"I'm not," you snarl truthfully. She throws her head back and laughs. You want to tear her throat out with your teeth.

"Now then," she says, turning and taking two steps towards the edge of her desk, "why should I hire you?" She's taller than you would be, even if you were standing. Bitch. She's wearing heels, though, if the sway of her hips and the shape of her ass are anything to go by.

"Because if you don't, I'll go get some other mob to hire me," you growl.

She laughs again, takes a drag from the cigarette in her holder. "And if they don't take you, either?" she asks, making her way around the desk. Her fingers trail along the surface; her black dress shines green in the dim lamplight. She perches on the edge of the desk, directly in front of you, and folds one leg over the other.

You shrug. "I get angry. When I get angry, I get stabby. When I get stabby, people get killed." You sound like gravel.

"Well, we wouldn't want that, now would we, Jack?" Her legs are too perfect. You want to rake your nails down her elegant calves, her luscious thighs; draw some blood, make a mark. Her sequined dress pools slightly on the desk beside her.

" _You_ definitely don't," you correct. Cross your arms. Let her see that you hate her.

She takes a drag of her cigarette; slides off the desk, places her hands on the arms of your chair, leans forwards 'til your noses almost touch. Her next words ride a cloud of smoke directly into your face: "You're right. I don't."

She straightens up, moves away; props the cigarette holder on the edge of an ashtray. She retrieves a wide-brimmed black hat and a black-and-green tailcoat from the hook by the door.

"Good evening, Slick," she says, shrugging into the coat and settling the hat over shining brown-black curls. "I will meet you here at six-thirty tomorrow evening. You can show yourself out, can't you?"

"Who are you?" you demand, stopping her halfway through the door.

"Call me Snowman," she replies, and is gone.

You steal her smoldering cigarette from its holder and head home.

You fucking hate that woman.


	2. The Felt - June 7/20

Six-thirty, she said. Six-thirty. So here you are, standing in the smoggy evening air outside of Number 8, Blackwell Road, a freshly-lit cigarette dangling from your lips as you check your watch. 6:29. Close enough. You go in.

The stairs are just as creaky and decrepit as yesterday, if not more so. You have to admire Snowman's wisdom in choosing a place like this as her HQ: nobody could sneak up stairs like these.

At the top of the stairs is the fellow who was there yesterday - the big one with the crowbar. You raise your hand halfway to point at the door to Snowman's office, and he nods, so you go in.

The office is in darkness; the only light shines from the streetlamp outside in paper-thin slivers through the blinds. You don't see Snowman, so you close the door behind you and sit down in the same skeletal chair you sat in yesterday.

"Good evening, Jack." Her voice oozes from the shadows behind you, muffling her footsteps on the floor as she strides forward and reaches one elegant arm into your field of view. Plucking the cigarette from your lips, she steps around your chair, slotting the stolen cigarette into its holder and taking a drag. She doesn't flinch at the taste - you expected her to, her cigarettes are far more expensive than the trash you allow yourself to waste money on.

You want to say so many things. None of them are as polite as  _Good evening_. They're on the tip of your tongue, so you growl, "Good evening."

Snowman takes her time on her way around her desk. Her dress is similar to the one she wore yesterday - knee-length, black, with sequins that shine green when the light hits them, a low back and v-necked front - but with less sequins. Her shoes are shiny black heels, like yesterday, and her hair is impeccably styled.

She waits until after she's made her way around her desk, sat down in her chair, crossed her legs, taken a drag of _your_ cigarette (bitch), and blown three smoke rings with the smoke before she speaks.

"You don't want to work for me," she says. Her voice is husky. You hate her.

"Why not?" you snarl.

"Because," she replies. She takes another drag from the cigarette. "You're not an underling."

You cross your arms. You're tempted to go for your knife. "What do you mean?"

"You don't like following orders," she replies. "You'd be a loose cannon."

"What if I'm looking for someone to tie me down?" you grumble.

She looks you in the eyes. You don't look away. She pins you there, with her gaze, for long enough that you wish you'd counted the seconds.

Then she arches a perfect eyebrow. No other part of her face moves - just her eyebrow.

"I'm not that someone," she replies silkily, before glancing you up and down. "Well, not in this case, at least."

You know what she's getting at. You hate her for it. You hate yourself more for the way heat lances through the pit of your stomach.

"So what am I supposed to do?" you ask, pointedly changing the subject. "Hope someone else hires me?"

"Or start your own gang," Snowman interjects. "You don't like following orders, but I know you like giving them."

The look she gives you could be labeled many things. A poet would call it "smoldering". Your dick would call it "sexy as hell". Your brain prefers to stick with "despicable".

You stand up. "Well, thanks for the advice," you snap. "I guess I'll be seeing you."

The last thing she says to you that evening is, "Oh, you will."

* * *

The smog is thinning as you walk home. Upon your arrival, you slam the door behind you, light a cigarette, and lie on the floor, thoughts of gangs and your (potential) rival gang leader swirling through your head the way the smoke swirls around it.

You don't like the word gang, you decide. You need a better name for what you are - or will be. Snowman called it a "company" yesterday, which made you laugh, and you corrected it to "mob," which you don't like either. It sounds too... disorganized. Snowman also called it a business. You don't like that either, which has a remarkable amount to do with the fact that Snowman used it. You like the term mafia, you determine, because it sounds professional and also evokes your Italian heritage, but it's probably copyrighted or some bullshit.

If Snowman saw you she'd laugh. You're spread-eagled on the floor of your tiny living room, with a halo of smoke around your head and your fingers drumming on the floor.

You need to stop thinking about Snowman. She's miles, leagues, _light years_ out of your league, plus tall and gorgeous and you _hate her guts_.

The clock whirs, preparing to strike. You put your thoughts on hold and count the chimes.

 _One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven._ You expect it to stop there, but it goes on, and you keep listening, curious, as it strikes eight, nine times. How long were you zoned out for?

 _Ten. Eleven. Twelve._ It stops - thank goodness, or you'd have to get your head checked. Midnight. You should get to bed, get some sleep. Tomorrow you can start assembling your motley crew.

Wait a second.

Midnight... motley crew.

You have a name.

You collapse into bed five minutes later, falling asleep with a smile on your face.


	3. Lord English - August 7-8/22

You doubted you'd ever see Snowman again, face-to-face. And yet here you are, holding an envelope in your hands, with no doubt as to who it's from. Your name is written in black script: _Signor S Slick_. The edges of the crisp white envelope are tinted slightly green.

You turn it over to find that it's not an envelope at all, but a single sheet of paper folded in three and sealed with black wax. The wax is stamped with a figure 8.

Picking up your backup weapon - your letter opener - from your desk, you slide it under the wax, popping it open. (You've never actually used the letter opener as a letter opener before, so you spare a moment for excitement.)

Unfolding the letter, you find that is written in the same script as on the front. You read every word with care.

_Dear Mr. Slick;_

_Good evening, Jack. It has come to my attention that you are now the leader and founder of a small but efficient gang by the name of the "Midnight Crew". As the leader and one of the founding members of the Felt, it behooves me to ensure that you and I are in accord. I do not wish the Felt to come to blows with your Midnight Crew. In order to ensure this, I would propose that we two meet to discuss matters which may concern us both. Tomorrow, Thursday the eighth of August, at six-thirty PM, please meet me at my Headquarters. The address is the same as the last time you visited - Number 8 Blackwell Road, second floor. Tell Crowbar that I am expecting you, and he will allow you in._

_I look forward to seeing you again._

_Yours as ever,_

_Snowman_

* * *

Six-thirty, she said. Six-thirty. So here you are, standing outside Number 8, Blackwell Road, a lit cigarette dangling from your fingers as you check your watch a third time. 6:27. You don't want to seem eager, but you're nervous. You want to get this over with as quickly as possible. You drop your cigarette butt, grind it out under the heel of your boot, and check your watch again.

It's still 6:27.

You look up at the window. A finger slips from between the blinds, letting them fall shut. She was watching you.

You take a deep breath, adjust your hat, and head in.

"Snowman's expecting me," you tell the chap at the top of the stairs - you assume it's the one Snowman referred to as Crowbar, as he's holding a crowbar. He nods, and you enter Snowman's office.

It looks exactly the same as the last time you were here, even though it's been over two years. The same cracked, peeling paint; the same skeletal chair before the same imperious desk. The same hatstand by the door, on which you hang your hat.

Snowman is standing at the window, wearing the same low-backed, sequined black dress you first saw her in. The sequins still shine green when they catch the light. She's still gorgeous.

You don't say a word. You don't have a word to say. The contours of her back cast a hundred shadows across her silken skin. You're reminded unequivocally of how much you hate her.

She turns her head to look at you. Her eyes catch the light from outside, and you're struck by how bright they are. You've never _seen_ eyes that shade of green.

She takes a drag from her cigarette holder and blows three smoke rings in fairly rapid succession, watching them disperse into the stagnant office air. It's still bright out, but the blinds are closed most of the way, casting the office into semi-darkness.

"Good evening, Jack," she greets, turning fully to face you and sitting down in her chair. "Please, sit." Her tone is just as coldly civil as you remember - you couldn't have exaggerated _that_.

You sit. "You summoned me?" you prompt, crossing your arms and scowling.

"It's good to see you again," she says, almost convincingly, but you know better. "And yes, I did 'summon' you, as you so eloquently phrased it."

You can hear the sarcasm dripping from her last statement. It hits the floor and splatters.

"Why?" you snarl. Let her know you don't want to be here, even though you couldn't have kept yourself away if you'd tried.

She takes a drag from her cigarette. "I presume you've heard about the arrival of one Lord Caliborn English?" she asks you.

"Yeah," you growl. "I've heard about it. Happened last year. Huge British mob boss, et cetera. What about him?"

She shifts, as if about to rise. "Well, Lord English has managed to steal my own gang out from under my feet. He's joined the Felt," she summarizes, "and he's planning a mutiny. I don't know when, but he wants me out of the way, and one way or another, that's what he's going to get. Whether I live or die depends only on my own stubbornness."

"And what does this have to do with me?" you ask, feigning boredom.

She does rise now, pacing slowly around her desk like a leopard on the hunt. She's angry; you can feel it more than see it.

"Your little _gang_ ," she says, spitting the last word like an insult, "is only still around because I let it be. You may have a little influence, yes, but the fact remains that there are _four of you_ and _fifteen of us_ , and had I ordered it, you would be six feet under, all four of you."

"You _let_ it be?" you snap, incredulous.

"You were entertaining," Snowman explains with a shrug.

" _ **ENTERTAINING?!?**_ "

"Once Lord English takes over," she continues as if you haven't spoken, "he will have no reason not to dispose of you. He can squash you like a bug," she says, leaning in, "and that's exactly what he'll do."

"He can try," you reply automatically, almost instinctively.

Snowman smiles coldly, like a snake. "So confident," she muses. "So cocky. Have you always been this reckless?"

She takes a drag from her cigarette holder, then places the tip against the scar over your eye, tracing it from your eyebrow straight down to your cheekbone. The cigarette holder is damp from her lips. You try to hide the way your breath hitches.

"It certainly looks that way," she murmurs, answering her own question.

"I don't need your help," you spit, trying to ignore the way she's affecting you.

In an instant, she's behind you, snaring a hand in your hair and wrenching your head to the side. You choke on your own breath.

"You always need my help," she purrs directly into your ear. Her hot breath washes across your skin, raising goosebumps all over your body. You have no reply, so you change the subject.

"You know," you chuckle, "if I'd known you were just going to smack me around, I'd have stayed home." Your voice is strained. You're lying through your teeth, and she knows it.

"What happened to looking for someone to tie you down?" she breathes. Her lip brushes your ear. You shudder.

"Thought you said you weren't that someone," you choke out.

"I could be," she murmurs.

You're screwed. At least, you hope you are.

"I hate you," you rasp.

"I loathe you," she replies matter-of-factly.

"I despise you."

"I abhor you."

" _I want you_ ," you hiss.

She sinks her teeth into your shoulder.

You moan before you can stop yourself, clamping a hand over your mouth the second you realise.

Releasing your shoulder, she chuckles, tracing a figure-eight in the center of the bite marks with the tip of her tongue. The ring of indents stings, and you're relatively certain she drew blood.

Finishing with her figure-eight, Snowman presses a chaste kiss over it - the first time she's ever kissed you, and it reeks of sarcasm. Releasing your hair, she straightens up, pacing languidly around you and back to her desk. She turns to face you, perching on the edge of her desk and crossing her legs. She's smirking. You're definitely bleeding. You've never been harder in your life. Fuck.

"I'm glad to see that you can survive without me," Snowman purrs. Taking a drag from her poised cigarette holder, she blows a smoke ring, before meeting your eyes with an unpleasant smile.

"Good evening, Jack," she says with a certain finality.

Grumbling under your breath, you stand and shuffle out, grabbing your hat from the stand on your way by.

God, you hate her.

You spend the rest of the night lying awake on your apartment floor, with one hand in your trousers, the other pressing sweaty fingertips into the bite marks on your shoulder, and Snowman's face swimming behind your eyelids.


	4. Scatter - February 11/23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! The Midnight Crew make an appearance!  
> ... Briefly.  
> But they'll be back, don't worry.

You wish you'd listened to Snowman.

Of course, it's too late now. But you can still wish.

"We can't keep resisting," your second-in-command says for probably the third time tonight.

"I _know_ that, Droog!" you snap, bringing your fist down on the table with a bang that makes everyone jump. "I _know_ , but do you have a better idea?"

Deuce opens his mouth, no doubt to say something inane and ridiculous, and you prop your head in your hand in preparation. Honestly, if you didn't love these idiots as much as you do, there's no way you would have kept going this far. No way in Hell you'd ever tell them that, though.

"We  _could_ just -" Deuce starts, but he's cut off by the ringing of the phone. He doesn't seem to mind. He's really a pretty good-natured fellow, if a bit of an idiot. Okay, a  _lot_ of an idiot. Boxcars slides the phone over to you, and you pick up the receiver.

"Yeah?" you rasp.

" _I did warn you_ ," Snowman's voice chides you. " _You didn't listen, but I did warn you_."

"I listened," you defend. _I was just too turned on to pay attention_ , you finish in your head, but out loud you say, "I just didn't bother to pay attention."

" _You didn't want to admit that I was right_ ," she concedes. You can hear her smiling. " _I understand that. After all, you are... how shall I say -_ "

"A stubborn little shit," you supply.

Snowman laughs. It crackles through the phone line. " _Well phrased. A stubborn little shit._ "

"What do you want?" you ask, tired.

" _Revenge, mostly_ ," she admits. " _And I feel as though you might be after something similar, which won't be of any use to me if you're dead. So allow me to offer you some advice._ "

"And what might that be?" you ask, signalling frantically at the rest of your gang. Droog fumbles around for the headsets so they can listen in.

" _Your right-hand man said it best_ ," she replies, and Droog shoots you a smug look. " _You can't keep resisting._ "

You glare at Droog, sighing into the phone. "Then what do _you_ propose we do?" you snap.

Snowman seems amused by that, the fucking bitch. " _Me? I'd suggest you scatter. Flee for your lives, as it were_."

"Yeah, well, thank you for your input," you snarl, "but I think we can figure this one out without your pessimism."

You hang up on the sound of her cackling.

For a moment, your gang stares at you. Then Deuce speaks.

"What are we going to do, boss?" he asks quietly, pulling off the headset.

You prop your head on one hand, let the other thump on the table. Sigh. Look around at your crew.

"You heard the woman," you say finally, gesturing to the phone. "Scatter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex coming up. Woo!
> 
> TGIF, guys. TGIF. I've got the next two chapters written up, mostly - I just have to type them and post them, so we should be seeing some sex by the end of the weekend. Then I'm planning a bonus chapter, and I've already started on the morning-after chapter, and yeah. I feel like nobody's actually reading this story, so if anyone's reading it, let me know <3 and I love you :D


	5. Lost - June 12/23

"Enough is enough," your soon-to-be-ex-landlady says stoutly in Italian, folding her plump arms and planting her feet. "You pay, or you go."

"Oh, come on, Signora," you plead, also in Italian. "Just give me one more month, and I promise -"

"- That you'll pay me by the end of the month," Signora Moreno finishes for you. "That's what you said last month, remember, Slick? And the month before that, and the month before that, and -"

"All right, all right, I'm going!" you surrender, stepping carefully around Signora Moreno and backing out the door. What few belongings managed to survive Lord English's brutal assault on the Chicago mob scene are piled neatly in the hall, where Signora Moreno's son Vincenzo must have put them while you were out. Sitting at the top of the pile is your hat, resting on your coat.

You pick up the hat, dusting it pointedly before settling it on your head, tipped down over your face. Your coat goes next, and you give it a single solid flick before shrugging it on. Checking your numerous pockets, you locate your wallet, your cigarettes, your knife, and your cigarette lighter, then dust your lapels and turn to leave.

"Do you not want the rest of your things?" Signora Moreno asks, striding on her sturdy legs to stand in front of you. She's several inches shorter than you are, her curly silver hair knotted back in a bun. Her face is stern, but plump and motherly. You've always been rather fond of her, and even knowing how helpless the situation is, you feel awful depriving her of the last four months' rent, when she could easily have booted you out the first time you couldn't pay. She's wearing a housecoat and slippers - your watch recently informed you that it was a little after eleven o'clock at night, and you're extremely glad that your common sense won out for once, preventing you from drinking away everything you had.

"You keep them," you say, voice uncharacteristically affectionate. (You blame the alcohol.) You fish your apartment key out of your pocket, pressing it into Signora Moreno's palm. "Sell them or something, see if you can get back at least _some_ of the money I cost you."

Signora Moreno seems to have no words, as she doesn't protest when you step past her and into the night. You're still tipsy, but not so tipsy as to be unable to keep yourself from tripping over the threshold as you stumble out into the muggy June air. Signora Moreno shuts the door gently behind you, and you straighten up, dust off your jacket, and look around.

The street is all but deserted. A lone figure slouches in the pool of lamplight across the road, leaning against a brick wall with their hooded sweatshirt shading their face. You're fairly sure they're female, judging by the figure only half-masked by their sweatshirt. You stride across the road, hands in your pockets, a slight stumble in your step but really not that much.

"Hey," you greet huskily, slumping against the wall next to the figure. They're - she's? - basically the same height as you, but you're fairly used to that by now. It's not a big enough deal that you're going to pick a fight over it at eleven o'clock at night when you're all but broke and without a clue as to where to go or what to do now, even considering your temper and how much alcohol you've consumed today.

The figure doesn't reply - just pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offers you one. Their hood falls back, allowing a stray strand of lamplight to illuminate loose, overgrown black curls shading the upper half of what could be a beautiful face. For some reason, as you take the offered cigarette, seeing the woman's face sparks an odd feeling inside of you, something passionate but hard to identify. You light your cigarette with your lighter, then light hers, too - fair is fair, it's her cigarette. The package catches your eye just as the taste hits your tongue, and you realise they're the same brand as your own smokes.

The woman takes a deep drag, like a drowning woman breathing real air for the first time in God knows how long - ironic, considering. Tipping her head back, she blows three lazy smoke rings. Her hair tumbles out of her eyes. They're electric green.

"Snowman," you realise aloud.

She turns her head towards you an infinitesimal amount, gaze burning through you from the corner of her chartreuse eye as a smile curls the corner of her lip.

"Good evening, Jack," she replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: SEX! Three cheers for smut!


	6. Three Nights - June 12-14/23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to up the rating, folks!

"Where are you living?" Snowman asks you, dropping her cigarette butt to the ground and grinding it out beneath her boot heel. The two of you have been walking aimlessly through the streets, lit only by the night sky and the golden glow of the streetlamps. Your watch read 11:12 the last time you checked it.

"Nowhere," you reply, taking one last drag from your own cigarette before dropping it and grinding it out. "I'm lost now, I guess."

Snowman looks at you from the corner of her eye, and for the first time, even though you can feel her dislike of you, it doesn't feel like she's looking down at you. Maybe it's because she's a half an inch shorter than you without her heels on - and you relish that half-inch, make no mistake - but it feels like she's looking at you not as an inferior, but as an equal.

Eventually, she nods. "I can get us a motel room for a couple of nights," she says decisively, as if it's a foregone conclusion. "At least until we can figure out someplace else to go. I can probably -"

"Hold on," you interrupt, stopping in your tracks and grabbing Snowman's arm to whip her around so you can look her in the eyes. "Since when are _you_ in charge of _me_?"

"Nobody said I was in charge," Snowman replies with the kind of exaggerated patience that speaks of uncountable irritation. "I was merely taking the initiative to suggest a solution to a mutual issue."

"I don't need your _fucking_ charity," you spit.

"And I'm not offering you any _fucking_ charity," she spits back, mimicking your tone. "I'm _offering_ you help."

"I don't need your help," you hiss, leaning forwards, getting right in her face.

" _Yes, you do_ ," she says evenly. There's such an infuriated intensity to her voice that you pause, and you take advantage of your momentary mental absence to get your temper under control.

"You're not the boss of me," you say finally, wincing the second the words leave your mouth. Fuck, you sound like a whiny little brat.

"I'm not," Snowman agrees.

"So stop ordering me around," you snarl.

"I know you don't like taking orders," she starts.

"Neither do you, but you love giving them," you grumble.

"So do you," she points out. She's so close you're almost kissing. You're pretty sure you desperately want to be. Fucking bitch.

"We don't work well together," you decide after a moment. You turn and head down the street.

"And where do you think you're going?" Snowman asks. She doesn't follow you; just watches you leaving, calls after you.

"Away from you," you reply without stopping.

"Allow me to rephrase that," she says. "Where else can you go?"

You slow to a reluctant halt.

* * *

The motel room is cramped and musty, but there's a bed, a chair, and a bathroom, and it's cheap enough that you could stay there for a week if you had to on your and Snowman's combined funds. You go to crash in the armchair by the window, but Snowman's voice stops you.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

You turn to face her. "I was _going_ to sleep," you say, "if that's _okay_ with you."

She gives you an "are you stupid" look. "What's wrong with the bed?"

You blink at her. "I assumed you would..."

She shakes her head. "Go ahead," she tells you, turning away to head into the bathroom. "I won't use it."

You're reluctant, suspicious, but you shrug off your coat and suit jacket, kick off your shoes and socks, and set your hat down on the bedside table. You don't see Snowman when you turn back around, so you remove your knife from your belt and slip it under your pillow before emptying your pockets, removing your tie, turning off the light and crawling into bed.

"Jack?" Snowman whispers from the bathroom. The light is leaking from the doorway, pooling soft and golden on the rough carpet. Her voice is soft, a little hesitant. You don't like it. It doesn't suit her.

"What?" Your voice is gruff, as usual.

"How old are you?" she asks.

"How old are _you_?" you reply.

"I asked first," she points out.

"Twenty-seven," you tell her.

"I'm sure," she murmurs. "How old are you, Slick?"

You sigh. "Twenty-four," you mutter.

You're absolutely certain she smiles. "Good evening, Jack," she says softly.

"I hate you," you say, half to yourself.

"I know," she replies.

* * *

You spend the night in a restless sleep. You refuse to let yourself sleep too deeply, but you've got your knife, so you do let yourself sleep. You wake to sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains to illuminate a room that's empty but for yourself. Your watch says it's quarter to noon. The room smells faintly of cigarette smoke.

You've just crawled out of bed when Snowman returns.

"Good morning," she greets icily, handing you a shopping bag in which you find two baguettes and a bottle of whiskey. "Save the whiskey," she tells you, disappearing into the bathroom. "I'll be out in a couple minutes."

You hear the water start running in the shower, and tear a chunk off one loaf of bread. You lie back on the bed, stare up at the ceiling, and chew on bread as you listen to the shower running.

After a few minutes, the water stops. You don't sit up, instead choosing to stay exactly as you are, as Snowman bustles around. After another minute, she emerges, wet hair dripping down her face and soaking the straps of the small black dress she's wearing. She steps silently across the floor in her bare feet, grabbing a chunk of bread and the bottle of whiskey. She sits down next to you on the bed and chews thoughtfully, before cracking open the lid of the whiskey and taking a swig. She hands the bottle to you, and you take a drink, proud of the fact that you only choke a little as it burns down the back of your throat.

"Here's the deal," Snowman says. "I'm going to ask you a question, and if you answer to my satisfaction, I'll pass you the bottle and you can have a sip. Then you'll ask me a question, and if you're satisfied with my answer, you pass the bottle back. How's that sound?"

You contemplate. "Fair," you reply.

She holds out her hand for the bottle. You clutch it protectively to your chest.

"Give me the bottle," she says, mildly amused.

"What if I say no?" you retort.

"Then I'll take it," she replies.

"You can try," you say automatically.

"Oh, Jack," she murmurs, leaning forwards. "We both know I won't have to _try_. Besides, ladies first."

"Just remember that when we're lining up at the gates to Hell," you grumble, passing over the bottle.

"Believe me, any time I go to Hell with you, it'll be a round trip," she replies, taking a sip of whiskey.

You glare at her from the corner of your eye, but don't comment on the innuendo.

"You introduce yourself as Spades Slick, and yet you asked me to call you Jack," she says. "Why?"

It takes you a moment to register that she's started the game. Only then do you speak.

"You want my whole life story, or the short version?" you ask, leaning back on your hands.

"The long version," she says, shrugging and taking another bite of bread. "I've nothing better to do."

"Well, my birth name was Giovanni Merlo," you begin.

"Isn't that a type of wine?" Snowman interjects. You glare at her, and she shuts her mouth.

"My family moved to America when I was seven," you continue as if uninterrupted. "The neighborhood kids took to calling me Jack after I explained that Giovanni was the Italian equivalent, and once I reached my teens and started gambling, my nickname became Blackjack, after my favourite game. Once I was legally an adult, at eighteen, I changed my name to Jack Noir. Then, once I got into the mob business, my friends suggested I have a mob name. Hence the use of Spades Slick."

Snowman nods and hands over the whiskey. "Your turn."

You take a swig of whiskey, giving yourself a few seconds to formulate your question.

"Who are you?" you ask after a pause.

She smiles slightly. "Snowman," she replies simply.

You roll your eyes. "I mean before that," you explain. "Where did you come from? Who did you leave behind, wondering what the hell happened to you? Who were you," you finish, "before you were Snowman?"

Her eyes are distant, her voice hollow. "Nobody I care to remember," she murmurs.

You think for a moment, then hand over the whiskey.

She takes it, taking a swig. The burn of the alcohol seems to shake her out of her reverie, and she smiles her old reptilian smile.

"Are you a virgin?" she asks.

"I - wh - bu - what?" you sputter, turning to give her a boggled look. "What - who - wh - I - what?!?"

She just grins and holds out the bottle. "Knew it," she says matter-of-factly.

You grumble, but take the bottle. There's no real point denying it, you suppose, but you still hate her for the smug smirk she's wearing.

"How old are you?" you demand, before taking a drink of whiskey.

"Old enough," she replies.

You just glare at her.

"Nineteen," she says, in such an exaggerated tone that you couldn't possibly believe her.

You keep glaring.

She rolls her eyes. "Twenty-six," she says finally.

You don't stop glaring.

"I'm twenty-six," she repeats, more earnestly this time.

"What year were you born?" you demand.

"Ninety-seven," she replies instantly.

You take a second to check her math before you hand over the bottle.

She takes her drink and thinks a while before asking. The wicked gleam in her eyes makes you nervous when she turns back to you, and she's hardly opened her mouth before you can see that you were right to be nervous.

"Would you have sex with me?"

You're reduced to sputtering for the second time in the last minute. "What - now?" you manage.

She scoffs, as if the very idea is somehow more ridiculous than her original question. "No! I'm not offering, I'm just asking. Hypothetically, if an opportunity did happen to..." she glances down at your lap, before meeting your eyes again - "arise, would you take it?"

You look her over. Her dress is a soft charcoal black, with thin straps and a skirt that only reaches her mid-thigh. The squarish neckline of the dress is stained a darker black from the water dripping from her hair. Among all the black and her ivory-pale skin, her eyes shine a bright, unnatural electric green. Her elegant lips are twisted up into an expectant smile.

"Fuck yeah," you breathe.

She grins and hands you the bottle and you take a swallow immediately, relishing in the way it burns your throat.

"Your turn," Snowman announces cheerfully.

"Game over," you declare, knocking back the whiskey again. "I can't top that."

She practically glows. You just scowl.

* * *

The rest of  the day is spent mostly in thought and silence. Snowman goes out for a walk around six in the evening, leaving you alone for an hour or so, and you make good use of that time to alleviate some of your frustration. You fall asleep soon after, so you don't see Snowman return.

* * *

"Slick?"

You open your eyes. You hadn't realised you fell asleep.

The room is awash with dim blue light. Snowman is standing at the foot of the bed in her black dress. Her skin shines in the moonlight, and you realise that she probably just stepped out of the shower. You wonder if she's slept at all in the last two days. She doesn't look tired. She looks... untouchable, untouched. She doesn't look quite human.

"Yeah?" you croak.

"Can I borrow your knife?" she asks. Her voice is hollow.

You blink once, twice, prop yourself up on your elbows. "Why?"

She sighs, tugging a lock of dripping black hair down in front of her face.

"Can I borrow your knife?" she asks again, a slightly exasperated tone creeping into her voice.

You blink again. "Oh." Pause. "Yeah, sure." You reach under your pillow and hand over the knife, holding it by the blade. She closes her white fingers around the handle, before moving silently back to the bathroom.

You lie back down, eyes wide open, and listen to the silence. Then the water starts running in the shower, and you sit up.

You're not entirely sure why you feel the need to make sure she's okay. Maybe it's because she's paying for the room, so you feel, maybe, kind of a little indebted to her. Maybe it's because that's your knife and you're the only one here and the door is locked so you'll be blamed if anything happens to her. Or maybe it's because you sort of like having her around - not because you like her, and not just because she's company, but because you don't _get_ her. Whatever the reason, you find your feet taking you to the bathroom door.

The sound of the water falling in the shower is even, unchanging, betraying the fact that if Snowman's in there, she's not moving. You swallow and place your hand on the doorknob. You know with terrible certainty that if it doesn't open, you _are_ going to break down the door.

It opens.

Quietly as you can, you turn the doorknob and crack open the door. It opens towards the counter, away from the shower, and you quickly drink in the scene.

Your knife is sitting next to the sink, surrounded by shorn black curls. The blade is clean, and you nearly breathe a sigh of relief before you realise that that doesn't mean shit. She could easily have cleaned it. Cursing under your breath, you open the door a little wider - and freeze.

Snowman is standing in the shower, face tilted up to the ceiling, arms slightly outstretched. You don't see any red through the translucent shower curtain, and you feel your heartbeat slowly recede. You also see no green, which means her eyes are closed - also good, because with the way she's turned, if her eyes were open, you'd be looking right into them.

As if on cue, her eyes flutter open. They find yours instantly, and you get the sudden, crystal-clear feeling that she knew you were there.

A smile curls the corner of her lip. "Good night, Jack," she says, amusement lilting in her voice.

You scowl and shut the door, before stomping back to the bed and flopping down on your stomach in an effort to calm down. Somehow, you manage to drift back to sleep like that, face-down on top of the covers, face tilted to the side so you don't suffocate yourself in the pillow.

* * *

Maybe, sometime in the night, sometime during that timeless expanse of minutes between midnight and dawn, maybe you wake up. And if you wake up, maybe - just maybe - it's to find a pair of peridot eyes gazing - or perhaps just simply looking, searching - into your own. But if you wake at all, it's only for a half a heartbeat, and when you wake up, truly, in the morning, you can't be sure of whether or not it was a dream.

But when you go to get up, you notice that the blankets on the other side of the bed are less rumpled than before; almost as if someone tried too hard to cover their tracks.

* * *

You don't see Snowman all that day until late. You spend the day thinking, your hand wandering south every time your mind wanders to Snowman. You eat the slightly stale bread, but don't touch the whiskey; you go out for a walk at one point, and end up breaking into a run to keep yourself from pummeling the nearest wall until you break something. Passers-by give you strange looks and a wide berth; you're an unwashed, unshaven mess, with angry eyes and a permanent scowl. You realise your hair is getting long; your mind snaps instantly back to Snowman, and you have to head back to the motel room before you make a public spectacle of yourself.

When Snowman returns, it's to find you sprawled out on the bed, with a cigarette in your mouth and your trousers still halfway unzipped. You don't care.

"No smoking in the room," she says in greeting.

"You do it too," you growl.

"At least open the window," she retorts, moving to do it herself.

"So, what did you do today?" you ask without looking at her. You're tempted to tag the word "bitch" onto the end, but resist.

"More than lie around with my hand in my pants," Snowman replies sharply, turning back to you.

"I did not spend the _entire_ day like this," you snap, no longer resisting the urge to add, "bitch."

"I'm sure you didn't," Snowman informs you in an I-don't-believe-you-for-a-second tone.

"And what did you do that was supposedly _so_ productive?" you grouse, gesturing with the hand that's not taking your cigarette from your mouth.

"Gambled," she replies, unslinging a bag from her shoulder and tossing it onto your lap. You open it. Inside are several large bundles of bills.

"Tell me, _Blackjack_ ," Snowman says, smirking down at you. "Are you any good at cards?"

You sit up. "I am _damn_ good," you tell her.

You prop yourself on an elbow and sigh. "You say you got this gambling?" you ask, looking her over. "So just out of curiosity, why is your dress rumpled like you haven't been wearing it?"

She shoots you a look of the purest loathing you've ever seen. If looks could kill, you'd be eviscerated; you wouldn't be surprised to find that you're bleeding when you look down. She opens her mouth to speak, and for a second you're sure she's going to launch into a venomous tirade, but she pauses, and her gaze sharpens until you swear you can feel it pressing into your skin, drawing blood.

"It spent the day in my handbag," is all she says. "I wore the dress that's in there now."

You pull it out. You're surprised to find that it's not black. It's blood-red.

You glance back at her, eyebrow raised. "You bought _another_ dress."

"And shoes," she adds, displaying her black stilettos. Your gut does a little flip at the way she poses as you trace her with your eyes from her foot all the way back up to her eyes. "Do you have a problem with that?"

You flop back down onto the bed. "I guess not."

She smiles, but she doesn’t seem to mean it. "Good."

You stuff the dress back into the bag and drop the bag on the floor. "Well, congrats on getting more money," you say halfheartedly.

She shrugs. You can hear it in her tone when she says, "I could've gotten more if I'd had help."

You turn your head to look at her, and hold her gaze for as long as you can before she looks away and picks up the bag, tossing it onto the armchair.

"I'm sure you could have," is all you say.

She lifts one foot to get at the buckle of her shoe, balancing expertly on her other spiked heel as she steadfastly ignores you. "As I will be needing and using your help tomorrow," she says, removing her shoe and starting on the other one, "I would suggest you get some sleep." Hooking her fingers through the back straps of the shoes, she pads barefoot to the bathroom, tossing the shoes into the closet as she passes. "Good night, Jack." And with that, she disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

Jesus Christ on a crutch, does the woman ever _sleep_? You huff out a breath, stub out your cigarette in the ashtray that mysteriously appeared on the bedside table two days ago even though you're not allowed to smoke in the room, and flick off the bedside lamp.

"Snowman?" you call. Your voice is raspy.

"Yes, Jack?" her voice wafts from the bathroom.

"Could you get the light?"

Your eyes are closed, so you don't see it, but you hear the soft _click_ and your eyelids go black.

"Good night, Jack," Snowman says softly.

You sigh, shifting on top of the covers, and don't reply.

* * *

When you wake, it's to find a body hovering over yours and a hand across your mouth.

You're awake instantly. The room is still fairly dark; the window must still be open, as there's a cool breeze blowing. The hand over your mouth is hot, almost feverishly so, and slick with what you sincerely hope is water, though you doubt it's anything else.

" _Jack_ ," Snowman breathes into your ear. Her breath is hot, and it raises goosebumps along your neck. Her mouth is _right next_ to your ear. " _Jack, wake up_."

She smells inexplicably musky. Her hair is wet, like she just stepped out of the shower. Actually, her entire body is wet, and burning nearly fever-warm, and... stark naked. Shit.

Snowman is straddling you, in the middle of the night, stark naked and dripping wet. The jolt this realization sends to your dick is almost painful.

" _Jack_ ," she breathes again, more insistently, and you shudder, feeling the way her lips _almost_ brush the shell of your ear. " ** _Jack_**."

"What do you want?" you try to ask, but the hand over your mouth turns it incoherent.

"Jack," she hisses into your ear for probably the twelfth time, "I want you to fuck me."

You manage to strangle a moan in the back of your throat. Fuck, you are totally dreaming, aren't you.

She rolls her hips down against yours, and yeah, this is a dream, there is no _way_ this is actually happening, you've got to be imagin- _shit_.

She trails her tongue up the side of your neck, and okay, you kind of hope that you _are_ imagining it, that you _are_ dreaming, because if you're dreaming then that means Snowman doesn't know that it's _her_ fault that you're moaning like that, and she would never - oh, fuck, she would _never_ let you live that down. Fuck, how are you already this hard; that shouldn't be possible, even if you are dreaming.

She bites down, _hard_ , on your neck, and you cry out. _Fuck_ , that fucking _hurts_ , the fucking bitch already left scars once, shouldn't that be enough? There's no _way_ you're dreaming, shit, that hurts _way_ too much for you to be imagining it, and _why is that thought so fucking hot?_

Her hand flies from your mouth to your pants, starting to work at the fastenings. "What the fuck -" you manage to rasp out.

"Shut up," she hisses, whipping to face you, "just shut up," and then she's kissing you, shutting you up with her mouth on yours, and it's hot and breathless and so wet it makes you dizzy. Your first kiss, and you're already seconds away from having your brains fucked out by a woman you barely even know. That thought doesn't last long before your fly gives way and suddenly she's got a hand on your dick and _fucking hell **why haven't you done this before?!?**_

You make another unidentifiable noise in your throat, before gasping out her name. She ignores you, slender fingers not teasing, as you expect, but firm and rock-steady and _so fucking perfect_.

"Snowman," you choke out again. Your mind is brimming with questions, so many questions that you can't focus on with all the pleasure drowning them out.

Snowman stops dead, stilling her hand and resting her free arm on the pillow beside your head. You nearly scream. Her voice is bursting with false sweetness when she asks, "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," you manage, voice half-strangled - fuck, it _actually fucking hurts_ , it feels like you're going to die if she doesn't keep going - "but -"

"Then _shut the fuck up_ ," she hisses, fire flashing green in her eyes as she digs her nails, long and wicked-sharp, into your scalp.

You hiss in a breath through your teeth as the pain sends a burst of fresh heat to your dick. How is this even possible? How the fuck is she doing this to you? How is it possible that this woman can play you like a _fucking_ instrument? It - it shouldn't be possible, it shouldn't -

If it were any other woman, this wouldn't be happening, you realise wryly. If it were anyone else, you wouldn't be this hard, this desperate, this fucking _needy_. If it were anyone else -

If it were anyone else, this would go down differently. Not just skill-wise - even if she could play you like a violin, use you like the fucking tool you are, even if she were as devastatingly _perfect_ at taking you apart as Snowman is, this wouldn't be happening. Because if it were anyone else, you wouldn't _let_ her do this; if it were anyone else, you wouldn't want her. You don't want anyone else. _You want_ _**her**_.

You've lost track of what you're saying and what's just bouncing around your skull. You think you might be begging, but without any breath it's coming out silent. She rolls her hips against yours and the tip of your dick bumps against soft skin and you know _exactly where_ , and your head is spinning and you're desperate, so fucking desperate, and she's fucking deadly and burning, scorching, blisteringly hot against you, hot and dripping and _toxic_ , and you fucking can't

get

enough

so you beg, lips moving, gasping, panting, and your voice won't work because Snowman won't let it so you plead with your body, hands grasping at her thighs, her hips, her waist -

In a heartbeat, your wrists are in her hands and her hands are pinning yours on either side of your head. You whine. God, you're pathetic.

She returns a hand to your dick, and you don't move, dizzy with anticipation that you'd be holding your breath over if you had any left to hold. Then she sinks down onto you, and your vision goes momentarily black.

She's too fucking perfect, and you can't stand her, but you _want_ her, so much that even now, when you _have_ her, she's _right here_ , she's _taking you_ , you still ache with a desperate, burning want that feels like pain but burns like pleasure to feed the fire under your skin.

You want to touch her. Fuck, you want to touch her, but you can't, you don't dare, because she can get up and leave, she can leave you here and she _will_ if you touch her so you dig your nails into your palms and try not to. The moonlight shines off her, sleek and pearlescent-pale, gleaming on her shoulder, her collarbone, the curve of her breast, and before you realise it you're digging eight crescents into the tops of her thighs and she comes, back arched and head tipping back, stark and gorgeous and com _pletely_

_fucking_

_silent_

and she fucking - oh shit, she _clenches down_ on you, and shit,  _why is she so perfect?_

 _I hate you_ , you mouth, not sure whether the words fully form, but Snowman hears. She tips her head back up, looking down and meeting your eyes, electric green on deep brown.

You come harder than you knew to be possible, a strangled cry dying halfway out of your throat. Pleasure washes over you in burning waves, fogging up your mind, and when they finally stop wracking your body, you wrench your hands away from Snowman's legs and wait, panting, for the fog to clear.

After a minute, Snowman pulls off, clambering silently off the bed and padding back to the bathroom. You lie there, silent, mind-fog clearing barely enough to illuminate the thought, _what the fuck was that?_

Slamming your hands down on either side of you, you let out a roar of frustration.

From the bathroom, you hear Snowman, probably high on endorphins, start to laugh.

Your fingertips are sticky. You raise them to your eyes, smearing the stain over the tip of your thumb.

You drew blood.

Triumph.

You fall asleep with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hey! I wrote the end bit of this chapter from Snowman's perspective, in case anyone cares. You can find it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3627315).


	7. Aftermath - June 15/23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sex. 'Cause why the fuck not.

It's barely light when you wake; you figure it's probably before dawn. A squint at your watch confirms that it's twenty past five.

Moving as quietly as you can, you slide off the bed and onto the floor. Your trousers are still undone; you zip them up, feeling the ghosts of Snowman's hands on your wrists, your hips, your scalp. You shake your head, as if to dislodge the thought. Your bare feet make startlingly little noise on the rough carpet, and you quietly gather your belongings before heading carefully for the door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

You stop, head drooping. "Away from you," you say quietly. Your voice is rusty; you clear your throat.

"Well, aren't you a gentleman," Snowman replies sarcastically. "Is that the kind of guy you're going to be? The kind to fuck and run?"

You take a breath and raise your head, but don't speak. You have a horrible inkling that if you try to say anything, you'll end up either yelling or in tears. Neither of those would be a good idea.

"Or maybe you're just ashamed," Snowman continues, and you're painfully glad she can't see your face. "What are you ashamed of, Jack?"

You take another deep breath before defending as calmly as you can "I'm not ashamed. I am _fucking_ furious."

Snowman almost-laughs. "For what?"

You wheel on her, eyes flashing. "What do you mean, _for what_?" you hiss. "You took my fucking virginity without my consent!"

"I _did_ ask if you wanted me to stop," she points out. She's back in the black dress, you note.

"Yeah, _after you'd already started!_ " you snap. "You're supposed to ask _before_ you do something like that, not halfway through!"

"So you're ashamed of having given your virginity to someone you don't like," she interprets.

"No!" you shout, flinging down your armload of possessions and running your hands through your hair. "I'm not fucking ashamed! I'm _pissed_ that you would do something like that!"

"Something like what?" Snowman asks, putting a hand on her hip.

You cross your arms and shift your weight. "Something like fuck and run," you tell her icily.

She regards you appraisingly, as if you should be proud of impressing her. You're not proud. You're _seething_.

"You used me, then fucking deserted me," you continue. "That is what is known as a _bitch move_. You probably didn't even fucking want _me_ , did you? You just wanted an easy fuck."

Her head tips back as she laughs, baring her throat, and _god_ , it's so fucking _tempting_ to just bite her, but your self-control is still hanging by at least three threads, so you can resist.

"Jack, Jack, Jack," she sighs patronizingly, as if speaking to a child. It makes your blood boil. "If I'd wanted an easy fuck, I could've gone to any man in this motel, and probably at least half of the women, let's be perfectly honest."

You scoff, but the next second she's got you by the collar and you're pinned against the wall. Your breath hitches.

"I wanted _you_ , Jack," she breathes, and every drop of blood in your body drops to your groin so fast it makes you dizzy. You make a strangled noise in your throat, and Snowman grins.

"I still do," she whispers.

Narrowing your eyes, you grab a fistful of her hair, wrench her head to the side, and attack her neck. She moans. You think it should count as a victory; it really doesn't feel like one. She grabs your waist and crushes your hips between her own and the wall. You groan against her skin, and she shudders.

"Mmh, that's what you like, isn't it?" she practically purrs, and you release her hair to grab her hips, grinding her harshly against you, relishing in the jolt of perfect pain. She rolls her hips, and you let your head fall back against the wall.

"Yeah, that's what turns you on," she continues, hips falling into a devastating rhythm against you. "Knowing I want you just as much as you want me, isn't that it?"

"What would you know," you gasp, "about how much I want you?"

In reply, she steps back, tugs you off the wall, and throws you to the ground. Winded, you lie there, trying desperately to catch your breath as Snowman settles herself astride your chest, knees pinning your wrists to the floor on either side of your head.

"Tell me, then," she demands. "Do you want me?"

"Yes," you moan. God, you can smell how turned on she is, it's hitting you in a wave of sweat and raw musk, and it smells so indisputably of _her_ that it makes your mouth water. _Yes_ , you want her, you fucking _need_ her.

She grasps the hem of her dress, peels it off over her head, baring herself to your gaze. She wasn't wearing anything under it, you realize as she tosses it aside. _Goddammit_.

She runs both hands through her hair, before trailing one down between her breasts, over her stomach. You follow it with your gaze as her fingers dip between her legs, and when her breath stutters, you curl your hands into fists.

"You like that, huh," she breathes, and the fact that she's watching you watch her touch herself while she's _on your chest_ takes your breath away like a sucker punch to the sternum. "Like lying there as I take myself apart, like watching, helpless, needing desperately to do it for me?"

Your throat, unbidden, releases a pleading whine.

"I hope you're watching carefully," Snowman says, "because there's going to be a test later, and god, I'd hate to see you fail." She sounds completely sincere - not teasing, not mocking, but genuinely as desperate as you are, and _that's_ what really gets you. No amount of mocking could make you want her half as much as this sincerity, and without thinking you're craning your neck, squirming to get close enough to -

Her hand comes down across your face, pushing you back down. "All in good time," she soothes, and you moan. Her fingertips are sticky against your eyelids, the scent of musk heavy in your nose. Her hand trails down your face, fingers tracing your parted lips.

"Lick it off," she breathes, and you do.

It should be disgusting. It is, it's revolting and obscene and depraved, but it's also so fucking hot that you have to hold yourself back from orgasm by sheer willpower - something you're running a little short on at the moment. You swirl your tongue across the pads of her fingers, taste her in the back of your mouth when you swallow around her fingertip. The breathy noise she makes, almost a sigh, makes you shudder.

When she withdraws her hand, you lean after it, chase her, desperate for more of her. She twines her other hand in your hair and forces your head back against the floor.

"You want more?" she demands.

"Yes," you plead.

"Beg," she orders.

" _Please_ ," you whisper. "Please, god I fucking need you, _please_ , just _let me_." You lose track of what you're saying after that, but it stops mattering as she shifts to all fours and slinks forward. The second your hands are free, you reach up and wrap your fingers around her hips, but she grabs your wrists and pins them to the floor. You whine.

"Don't touch," she scolds, and you glare up at her. She just smiles, returning her hands to your hair and guiding your head forwards.

The second your tongue touches her skin, her breath catches abruptly. You lick her again, slowly, and she grinds her hips down against your face. You'd laugh if you actually gave a fuck, but you're just as desperate as she is, so you just breathe her in when you can get the air, let her smother your senses with sweat-sticky skin and panting gasps and the taste and smell of her on your tongue. The soft, wet noises of your mouth on her junk mark a deliciously obscene counterpoint to the way she tries to catch her breath.

The very tip of your tongue skims across something rough, and she _flinches_ , hips jerking involuntarily away from the pressure. You go to ask her about it, because _what the fuck_ , but before you can draw the breath she crushes her hips down against you and it's all you can do to keep from suffocating in her. (There would be worse ways to die, you think absently.)

A little hesitant, you graze your tongue across the rough spot again. She fucking _keens_. You press down on it with your tongue, and she actually cries out, digging her long nails into your scalp.

... Oh. _Oh_.

She's panting above you, clenching down on the tip of your tongue; she's got to be close. You swallow a mouthful of slick and bitter, drag your tongue against the rough spot again, and she's gone.

(She makes this little breathy noise when she comes, like she loses and then suddenly regains the ability to exhale. Any other context, it'd be precious, but this is Snowman. She doesn't _do_ "precious".)

You don't stop working at her until she pulls off and slithers down your body, and you take the opportunity to ask, panting, "What the fuck, Snowman, you fucking masochist."

"Sadomasochist, actually," she corrects, tugging at your shirt buttons, and you're ridiculously smug that she's even more out of breath than you are. "It takes a sadist to get off on inflicting that kind of pain, but a masochist to get off on feeling it."

"Point still stands," you concede, licking your lips and letting her pull your shirt away before crawling back up to your face. "What the fuck."

"Says the man who probably jerks off to the memory of being permanently scarred," she retorts, before slamming her hips back down to grind against your mouth. You don't mind. You wouldn't have had a proper reply anyways.

Snowman twines her hands back into your hair, forcing your face closer, trying to get your tongue deeper than it will go. In retaliation, you retreat as far as you can, slipping your tongue back into your mouth and pressing a soft kiss to her slick skin.

"Jack, you bastard," she snarls, and you grin against her even as she grinds down against you, gorgeous and needy. You leave her like that for a little while, cursing and sputtering but without a single plea, and then, just as she shifts to get up, you latch your lips around her clit and _suck_.

She makes this little startled "oh" noise and collapses, curling in on herself like you kicked her in the stomach and just as breathless. You take this as a good sign to resume your oral assault on her, and within seconds she's coming again.

Her orgasm is a lot more intimate when she's curled over you like a dragon around its hoard; this close, you can feel the way her lungs heave, stopping abruptly before releasing everything in them with the most honest sound you've ever heard. This close, you can feel the way she goes tense, then completely boneless. This close, your eyes are so close you can see the faint trail of fine dark hairs running downwards from the base of her sternum. The trail's not quite straight. You're tempted to kiss her stomach, but not tempted enough to actually do it; besides, your mouth's still between her legs, and from the way she's gone boneless on top of you, nothing but dead weight, you don't think it'll be going anywhere just yet. You keep licking at her, her body shivering with aftershocks, until she regains enough skeletal structure to lift her hips from your face and slink fluidly backwards until you're face to face. Your whole chin is slick. You don't care.

For a moment, you both just stay there, panting and staring each other down. Then Snowman leans forward, and for a second you think she's going to kiss you and you're mildly impressed that she would even do that, considering where your mouth's just been, but at the last second, you realise she's at the wrong angle to kiss you, she's aiming too low -

She fucking licks her own spunk off your chin. You barely manage to keep yourself from falling to pieces right there.

She huffs a hot breath against your jaw. It's close enough not to chill your wet skin. "Kinky bastard," she breathes liltingly, before continuing to lick the mess from your barely-stubbly skin. You probably reek of her. You take a sick sort of satisfaction in knowing that.

"Guilty as charged," you manage to reply, "on both counts, technically speaking."

"Mmh, same," she admits.

You don't quite laugh, but you snort; she giggles and pulls back from your jaw. You lean up to kiss her, and she leans down to meet you -

Then rolls off you, rising gracefully to her feet and perching, legs crossed, on the edge of the bed. There's a wicked gleam in her eyes. _The fucking bitch_ , you muse absently, watching her from the corner of your eye.

She gives you a mock-innocent moue. "You want me, come get me," she invites casually, uncrossing her legs. Her thighs slide together wetly as she perches one heel on the bed frame, and she gives you that sly, serpentine smile. You know what she wants, you're pretty sure. She wants you to try to take her on, because she knows you're going to fail, and she wants to see it.

"I have no intention of letting you bait me into doing something that sets me up for failure," you inform her from the floor. You're still watching from the corner of your eye, but you don't think you'll be getting up.

Snowman shrugs. "Your loss," she replies, letting her legs fall open. She runs the tip of one finger over the wet skin of her inner thigh, regards it for a moment, then slips it into her mouth.

Your breath catches in your throat. She meets your eyes and winks.

Resisting? Fuck that noise. You stagger to your feet, and she grins.

"I knew it," she crows. "No willpower."

"I'd still have some, but I seem to have used it all up already," you grumble back, and she grins unapologetically.

You stumble forward, careful to stay on your feet. Snowman leans back on her hands, pushing herself across the bed, and you chase her over it on all fours. When she turns to slide to her feet, you're right behind her, and the second you've got the space between her and the bed to stand, you press yourself up against her back, grabbing both her wrists to keep her hands by her sides. She tenses the tiniest bit against you, and you grin. Fuck, you're so hard it hurts.

It's surprisingly easy to get her right where you want her. It's like a dance - two steps forward, pull her arms up above her head, twist her around to face you and slam her into the wall. She grins, arching her back to press her chest to yours. Her skin is nearly burning-hot against you.

"My turn," you murmur.

Snowman grins wider; she tugs at her hands, but your grip on her wrists doesn't falter. "Call it that, if you will."

"What would you call it?" you snarl, pressing her into the wall with your whole body. The pressure on your dick is killing you. Your head slots perfectly into the space between Snowman's head and her arm.

"A win-win situation," she replies.

You growl under your breath, directly into her ear, and she writhes against you - desperate to get free or desperate to fail, you're not sure.

"That's not the right answer," you say, and it comes out as a low purr. She shudders.

"But it's true," she points out, slightly breathless. Her voice is _so close_ to a moan. You really fucking want to push it across that line.

"That doesn't make it the right answer," you retort, sliding one thigh between Snowman's legs. She tugs again at your grip on her hands, but you don't budge, and she only succeeds in grinding down against your thigh. She makes a surprised noise at the pressure, hiding her face in the side of your head. Her breathing is a little shaky, and the hot, damp air she's panting against your ear only serves to remind you of how hard you are.

You grind your thigh up against her, and are rewarded with a helpless noise. The leg of your trousers is getting damp. You don't give a flying fuck. It's magnificent, in a filthy, depraved, _honest_ sort of way.

The way she's breathing against you, it's like she's inhaling you, trying to etch your scent into her memory for all eternity. You grind your leg against her again, and she fucking nuzzles the side of your head, breathing you in like you're her entire world. You wish you could see what this looks like from the outside. It feels suspiciously like you have the upper hand.

Then Snowman wrests her leg out from between yours, wrapping both legs around your waist so her entire weight is held between your hips and the wall, and you realise your dilemma. Both your hands are busy pinning Snowman's wrists. You can't undo your trousers without letting her go.

"Fuck," you mutter.

Snowman squirms, burying her face deeper into your hair.

"Пoжaлyйcтa,” she hisses into your ear, and you have no clue what she’s just said but you’re going to take it as a plea.

The second you release one of her hands, she buries it in your hair and drags you into a kiss. (You absolutely don't muffle a noise against her lips.) Your fingers fumble at your fly, somehow managing to get it open and your pants shoved down your hips. Then you're pressing in, and she makes the most beautiful noise into your mouth and _she's so wet, holy shit_.

"Fuck," you breathe as she buries her face in the side of your neck and shudders.

Snowman snarls something unintelligible into your skin, licking at the ring of teeth marks she scarred into your shoulder nearly a year ago. You don't even think to try and strangle the moan that rises from your throat.

Snowman keeps talking, and it takes you a few moments to realise that she's not actually speaking English. (You can't recognize any of the words, so you figure it's not one of the Latin languages either, or you'd understand some of it.) She sounds fucking pissed. You don't know what you did, or what you're doing, to make her this mad, but by the way her hand twists harshly in your hair and her hips won't stop moving, you're fairly sure you want to keep doing it.

"Tы прекрасный," she accuses, and fuck, it sounds so _sinister_ and you don't know what she's accusing you of but you're guilty, you're absolutely guilty, and all you can think to say is " _Yes_ ".

She wrenches her other hand free of your grasp - you hadn't realised you were still pinning it to the wall - and reaches down to where the two of you are connected. Her fingers nudge against the base of your dick, rubbing at her clit, and you reach down to do it for her. She wraps her hand around yours, slides her fingers in behind your own, and guides your questing fingertips. You're a little clumsier about it than she was, but she doesn't seem to mind, and you don't mind either, because when she breathes your name it's the most beautiful thing you've ever heard.

You couldn't stop your orgasm if you tried; it hits you like a freight train, just a lot quieter, and after a second of sheer bliss you go to pull out.

"Don't," Snowman orders, so you stop. You shift the fingers buried in the slick-hot-messy space between your hips and hers, and she grinds down against you, sliding her fingers past yours to dip inside the tight space where your dick still rests. Your fingers are intertwined as you both work her towards the brink, and it feels intimate to an almost uncomfortable degree. It's strange in a way that you don't think you'll ever get used to, but you'll never stop enjoying.

Then she gasps out a frustrated curse and forces your face down towards her breasts, and you think, _All right, I can work with this_.

Hesitantly, you flick your tongue across one of her nipples. Her breath hitches. "More," she demands. Her voice sounds a little strangled.

You'd say something, but you don't have the words and your mouth is busy. One of your hands is between Snowman's legs; the other, you find propping yourself up from the wall, so you find your feet and bring the hand from the wall to cup Snowman's other breast, flick your thumb across her nipple, feel her legs tighten on your waist. (She's got a wicked death grip around you; you couldn't move away if you wanted to.) She's as silent as she was the first time as her head tips back against the wall and every inch of her tenses up.

You don't stop moving your fingers, the ones laced between hers, as her hand guides your pace. You run your other hand slowly down her waist, over her hip, back up; you slide your thumb across the three ribs you can reach under the curve of her breast, marvel at the way her eyes go blank and her mouth falls open in a strange sort of smile as the pleasure wrecks her in violent pulses. You trace the soft, dark trail from her navel to her sternum with the pad of your thumb; the fine hairs actually point up along there. She's so soft here - so vulnerable. It would be so easy to sink a knife in, twist, tear her open, spill her blood across the floor. You don't think you'd be able to if you tried.

"What are you doing?" she asks eventually, voice husky.

You trail your thumb along the soft, shallow furrow between two of her ribs and don't answer.

"Don't go getting all sentimental on me, Jack," she says, and her tone is teasing but you know she means it as she slips her fingers out of herself and nudges your hand away. The vice grip on your hair loosens; she gradually relaxes her stranglehold on your hips, and you stifle the urge to wince at the ache. That's definitely going to bruise. Slowly, carefully, she eases her feet back to the ground and nudges you back with both hands on your bare shoulders. One of them's sticky, and you feel the difference more than you feel the actual touch. The air is _really fucking cold_ on your wet skin as you disengage from Snowman and step back. You keep your hand cupped around the side of her ribcage, just under her breast, but you're not entirely sure why.

She rolls her head forwards, then looks back up at you from under her eyebrows and you snatch your hand back.

"I'm not getting sentimental," you snap.

"You better hope you're not," is all she says in reply, before stepping forward, draping her arms over your shoulders, and kissing you so sweetly it shorts out all your higher brain functions.

It's devastatingly nice, and it creeps you right the fuck out. You kind of want to smack her, but she'd hit back. Then she steps away, gives you a wicked smile, and steps past you to stretch, then collapse backwards across the bed. You're proud to see she looks a little unsteady on her feet. You pull up and fasten your trousers, then lean one shoulder casually against the wall to disguise the fact that you're just as unsteady as she is.

Snowman sighs, eyes fluttering shut as her face slides into a grin. You watch her for a minute or several, before glancing at your watch to find that it's quarter to seven.

"Why the fuck am I up this early?" you mutter.

Snowman chuckles. "What time is it?" she asks.

"Six forty-four," you reply.

"Mmh, we've got plenty of time 'til the casino opens," she murmurs.

It's only then that you remember her words from yesterday - _I will be needing and using your help tomorrow_. You look down at yourself, in your three-day-old clothes and unwashed body.

"That bag you had yesterday," you ask, "where is it?"

She waves a vague hand in the direction of the armchair. "Over there," she replies. "Why?"

"I need some new clothes if we're going out tonight," you explain. Then you pause.

"We're not going out for fun," Snowman reminds you, and you wonder briefly if she read your mind. "We're going out for financial purposes."

 _It's not a date_ , your brain translates.

"Yeah," you mutter. "I know." You do know.

"Also, no one in their right mind would let you into their store looking like _that_ ," she points out as you grab a wad of cash from the bag. You straighten up and give her a look.

"What do you propose I do?" you ask.

"Well, there's my jeans and sweatshirt lying on the bathroom floor," she says, and you nod.

"I'm aware. What does that have to do with anything?"

"You can wear them," Snowman suggests, and you scoff.

"Like they'll fit me," you say.

She gives you an _Are you serious?_ look, then bursts out laughing.

You just glare at her.

"Fine," you huff once her gales of laughter have subsided somewhat. "So you're saying I should shower and wear your clothes?"

"Yeah," she gasps out, still breathless from laughing. "That's what I'm saying."

Dropping the wad of money back into the bag, you stalk off to the bathroom. "I'll be out in a couple minutes."

* * *

If asked, you would deny it 'til the end of the world, but you spend a good forty minutes in the shower, letting the hot water soak away the week's worth of grime. Snowman comes in at one point - the door doesn't lock, you discover; cheap motel - to wash her hands and face, wet a facecloth under the tap, and leave again, but you have forty-five minutes of otherwise uninterrupted bliss, and you savour it accordingly. By the time you turn off the water, you feel incredibly refreshed. You dry yourself with one of the towels sitting neatly folded on the shelf above the toilet and pull on Snowman's jeans, surprised to find that they fit perfectly. You pick up her sweatshirt from the floor and step out of the bathroom.

"Snowman?" you ask. She's sitting on the bed in the black dress, with a cigarette between her lips and her legs crossed - not the way she usually crosses them, elegantly, but the way one would cross one's arms. Her dress is rucked up to her hips to free her lower body, and it’s unfairly hot.

She turns to look at you, gives you a quick once-over. "Those look nice," she says, taking the cigarette from her lips and blowing a smoke ring.

"Are they men's jeans?" you ask her.

She nods. "Yes they are."

You go to ask why the hell she has a pair of men's jeans, let alone why they fit you in the first place, but stop yourself. "You know what, I don't want to know," you decide.

Snowman laughs, then gives you a calculating look. "You need a shave," she informs you.

You give her a look. (You feel like you've been doing that a lot recently.) "With what? I didn't see any razors in the bathroom, and I doubt motels tend to supply them."

She gives you the most wicked grin you've ever seen.

* * *

"Now, don't move," Snowman says in a low voice, brandishing the knife at you where you're sitting on the lid of the toilet. You swallow hard, but don't speak. The blade glints in the light from the bulbs over the sink. That's your knife. You know how fucking sharp it is - sharp enough, you know, to cut you until you bleed without you even feeling it.

Taking a slow step forwards, Snowman rests three fingertips on your forehead, gently tilting your head back and to the side. Then the cold blade touches your skin, and you have to suppress the urge to shudder. If you move, you'll regret it; you're barely even breathing.

The sound the knife makes as it slides over your throat, scraping off the lather Snowman put there, is bloodcurdling, and it raises goosebumps down your arms and across your shoulders. Snowman is silent but for her breathing, almost too even in the echoing stillness of the bathroom.

Your eyes flick from the cobweb in the corner to Snowman. Her face is set, focused, as she wipes the lather off the blade onto the towel tossed over her shoulder, then returns the knife to your skin; this time up on your cheekbone, just in front of your ear. She brings it down across your cheek in a slow, carefully sweeping arc, and the way her hand is so steady, so sure, on the handle, so careful when one tiny slip could spill so much blood, makes your entire body thrum with adrenaline. You don't think you've been this turned on since... fuck, since the third time you saw Snowman, nearly a year ago, when she wrenched you around and put scars in your shoulder and _fuck_ , your mind has gone off on a tangent that your dick _really shouldn't be following._ She's already done with your face, returning her attention to your neck.

"You have such a lovely neck, Jack," she croons, but somehow it feels less like a compliment and a whole lot more like bait.

You clear your throat hesitantly before speaking. "Thank you." Your subconscious kind of wants to add, _You have such a lovely everything_ , but you manage to censor it.

It's only because you know her so well that you can tell she's irked that you didn't take her bait. (You really shouldn't know her this well already; it's practically indecent.) "You're not going to return the compliment in some way?" she lilts. "That's cold, Slick."

"I couldn't think of anything to say," you lie before you realise that that may not be the best thing to say to the woman holding a knife to your throat. Her eyes go to ice, and her hand freezes as well, the edge of the blade digging in just under your Adam's apple with the unspoken threat hanging in the air: _Choose your next words carefully._

You try for a winning smile, which you've never used as a tactic, _ever_ , but what can you say - this woman brings out the worst in you. "Too many things to choose from," you explain, and her hand hesitates a moment longer before resuming its steady motion, dragging the knife over your throat.

"Good answer," she says, voice as icy as her eyes, and it goes straight to your dick because you are a moron and also apparently a teenager.

She tilts your head back, farther, until you can feel your throat burning and you swear if she pushes any further it's going to break. Then she sets the blade against your skin again, drags it up the underside of your chin, and releases you.

"Done," she announces, and you take a few seconds to catch your breath before slowly tipping your head back down. She finishes cleaning the knife and tosses it onto the counter before unslinging the towel from her shoulder to use a stray clean corner to wipe off stray lather from your skin. It should feel affectionate, you think. It really doesn't.

She steps away, dropping the towel next to the sink, and you mutter something lamenting the lack of aftershave as she turns on the tap to rinse her hands.

She gives you the calculating look you've already begun to associate with major trouble before turning off the tap and flicking the water off her hands. "Hold that thought," she says before darting out of the bathroom.

She's back before you even start to consider running away, the bottle of whiskey held in one hand.

"Oh fuck no," you say.

She cocks an eyebrow and a hip. The effect is devastating. "Why not?"

"Because," you retort, and then promptly don't know what to say next.

"I don't want to smell like I'm drunk," you fumble, and she sighs.

"You're right," she decides. "For once."

"Hey!" you protest, but she reaches up and wraps her free hand around your throat and you have to bite back a noise of some sort - whether a yelp, a moan, or something in between, you're not entirely sure.

"Jack," she says in an ultra-calm I'm-going-to-kill-you voice. You gasp, and her nails scrape against your newly-tender skin, leaving stinging lines as she trails her hand down to your bare chest.

"Yeah?" you manage. You don't squeak, okay, it just sounds like that because... the acoustics in the bathroom, yeah, that's it.

Her hand trails lower, coming to rest over your stomach, and you swallow hard. She's giving you this _look,_ like you're an untrained puppy that got into the garbage. She doesn't say a word, but the look says it all for her: _Oh, Jack. For heaven's sake, grow some self-control._

You choke out something resembling either an excuse or an apology, and she removes her hand from your skin to open the bottle of whiskey. She takes a swig; sets the bottle down on the counter with a satisfying _thunk_ , tosses the lid down next to it. Her breath is hot with the scent of alcohol when she leans into you, resting her hands on your knees and nudging them apart. You let her, watching, uncomprehending and unresisting, as she sinks to her knees between your legs. She doesn't stop looking at you, her expression riding the fine line between condescension and irritation.

... Okay, _riding_ is not something you need to be thinking about right now. Her fingers start working at your fly, and you find you can't summon the functioning power to do much more than watch, dumbfounded and painfully aroused, as she bares your dick to the suddenly-stifling air. Then she leans in, and your brain barely manages to scramble together an _oh shit_ before her tongue is on you, hot and wet and _fuck she probably still tastes like whiskey_. You don't know why, but that's... fucking hot.

Her eyes flick up at you, startlingly green under her inky eyebrows. Fuck, she is _wicked_. The thought flits briefly through your mind to make a crack about fighting dirty, but it falls from your head like the moan from your throat when she sucks the tip of your dick into her mouth.

Your hips jerk entirely without permission; your head tips back as Snowman digs her talons into your thighs. Your freshly-shaved throat twinges at the pull.

You can't see what she's doing, but you don't care; her mouth is wet and tight and sinfully hot, and it's taking a serious toll on your stamina. Her nails are prickling at your thighs and retreating in a continuous cycle, like she's _kneading_ at you; you feel utterly, hopelessly wrecked, and you're loving every fucking second of it.

You barely even register that your hands are in her hair until they're pulling, fingers twisting harshly as you fuck her mouth. The microscopic part of your brain that's still running starts shrieking at the rest of you, but Snowman doesn't try to stop you. She could; she could make you pay in a million and a half different ways. Instead, she follows the pace you set in your frantic haze, letting you use her just the way you want.

Somehow, you manage to roll your head back up onto your shoulders, looking down at Snowman's lips wrapped around your dick. You choke out a breathless curse.

Snowman meets your eyes. One eyebrow flicks up - an _Ar_ _e you serious?_ expression. Her eyes glint wickedly.

Then, ignoring the way your fingers are grasping at her hair, she leans forwards and swallows you down to the root.

You _howl_ , back arching until it burns as sparks go racing up your spine. You don't even register that she's pulled back; you're coming so hard your entire brain just whites out.

You come down abruptly, shuddering as the aftershocks die down. Snowman's already rising to her feet; your eyes follow the ivory-and-ink column of her body until you find her mouth.

There's a smear of white on her bottom lip. Her tongue flicks out and swipes it away. You take a ragged breath.

Absurdly, your brain chimes in, _If you love me, you'll swallow that._ You refuse to give it a second thought. It's a ridiculous idea; why the fuck would she -

Holy shit. She just swallowed it.

By the time your brain catches back up with your surroundings, Snowman's reaching past you for the whiskey. She takes a swig and swishes it around her mouth for a second before swallowing, and your eyes trace the movement of her throat with intense disbelief.

"You -" you start.

She just gives you a supremely unimpressed look. Snagging her sweatshirt off the shower curtain rod, she balls it up and flings it at your chest. You catch it awkwardly and she picks up the lid of the whiskey bottle and stalks out of the bathroom without another word.

You stand up slowly, a little uneven on your feet, and pull on Snowman's sweatshirt. You shove the sleeves up to your elbows to fill your hands with cold water from the tap and splash it on your face.

Propping yourself up on the edge of the counter, you look in the mirror. Your hair is still damp, and as it dries it's starting to curl, sticking up at bizarre angles. You try futilely to wrangle it into submission, before running your hands through it backwards to make it all stand up. You don't care, you decide, and return your attention to your reflection.

Aside from the mess of your hair, you look more or less presentable now that you're not sporting several days' worth of scruff. Your eyes are a bit shadowed, betraying your lack of sleep last night - you refuse to think about it, you're not going to think about it, fucking hell you're thinking about it - but otherwise you look normal. Trashy, but normal.

You touch your fingertips to the four stark white lines down the side of your neck. Those will fade, probably over the course of a couple of minutes.

You nod once to your reflection. You're presentable. You splash another handful of water on your face, suddenly remembering that you probably reek of something that is not generally acceptable to smell like in public, roll the sudden crick out of your neck, and step out of the bathroom.

Snowman is lying on the bed smoking a cigarette. She doesn't say a word as you make your way to the armchair and grab a bundle of cash from her handbag. You're walking back past the foot of the bed when Snowman sits up, and for a second you keep walking, until she speaks up.

"Come here," she says in a way that makes it sound more like a proposition than anything else. You stop, but don't make a move towards her.

Snowman slithers down the bed towards you, cigarette held loosely between her lips. Rising to her knees, she plucks the cigarette from her mouth with two fingers, then leans in until her face is nearly buried in your neck and inhales deeply.

"You smell like me," she murmurs, pulling back to take a deep drag of her cigarette.

"I fucking washed my face twice, what else do you want me to do?" you snap.

She rests her forehead against yours and exhales slowly, letting the smoke in her lungs pool around your head. You breathe in what you can get. It tastes faintly of her mouth.

"Better," she decides after inhaling you again. Backing away, she lets herself fall, arms landing stretched out above her head and the whole of her laid out before you like a virgin sacrifice. You know she's anything but, and yet the temptation to take a knife to her sternum is still there, hovering in the back of your mind.

"Go to Hammond and Stokes," she says, before taking another drag of her cigarette. "They're not cheap, but they're not absurd, and anything you get there will last you a lifetime."

You pull on your socks and shoes, grab your hat - you don't care if it goes with the sweatshirt, you like that hat and you're going to fucking wear it - and leave the motel without another word to Snowman. No fucking way are you taking _her_ advice; you can make your own decisions without her fucking help, thank you very much.

* * *

You go to Hammond and Stokes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that? Fucking finally, Chapter 7.
> 
> Lemme know if you want me to rewrite this from Snowman's perspective, like I did with the last part of Chapter 6. (If you haven't read it yet, it's called [Need, Want, Take](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3627315).)


End file.
